Feast After Feast
by Croik
Summary: After Hannibal has been caught, Will is sent in to secure a confession from him, but of course, it won't be easy.


_Hannibal Lecter has been caught, but he's nowhere near finished. With only bits and pieces of evidence to hold him on, the FBI has no choice but to send someone in to secure his confession. That someone is, of course, Will Graham, but even with all their history behind them, he still has no idea who and what he's really dealing with. _

Written for Hannibal Big Bang, 2013-14. Warnings for discussions of violence and cannibalism. Comments and crit welcome.

* * *

**Feast After Feast**

* * *

Will closes his eyes, and he dreams.

He dreams of dark forests and darker trees, dead branches like charred bone catching in his hair and clothing. He dreams of cold soil beneath his bare feet, sweat on his brow and in his eyes, cold and sweaty metal clenched in his palm. Figures pass ahead and behind him but he can't make them out. He tastes blood in all his pores. His entire body is woven from exposed nerves, and they sting with every step and breath and thought as he runs, flees, flings himself forward into night.

He dreams of gnashing teeth with blood in the gums. He dreams of fingers, hot and steady, sinking into his flesh, playing with his organs. He falls, he turns, he sinks. He sees antlers stretch out of his wounds and rise, flickering like fire, each velvety point kinking with knobby knuckles. He wants to scream, but he can't; he can only choke and gasp no one hears him. There's no one to hear him.

Then Will opens his eyes, and he's in a hospital bed, and he can scream.

Sleeping under sedation is much more peaceful. When the drugs wear off he wakes again, calmer this time, even though his sheets are still sweat-soaked. He lets each breath come when it's ready and stares into every corner of the small room, relieved to find it bright and shadowless. He's been handcuffed to the bedrails, and there is an IV in his arm, and his abdomen pinches and burns around his stiches. He thinks that the handcuffs are a good idea; the stitches are still fresh, and he has always been one to pick.

The nurse's call button is wedged in the bedrail close enough for him to reach, so he presses it. A minute later, a woman in scrubs enters, and on her heels, a very pale and red-eyed Alana Bloom.

As the nurse checks his vitals, Alana pulls a stool closer to the bed and sits down. "Will," she says hoarsely, taking his hand in both of hers. "Good morning."

A ring of red bruises pokes out over the top of her blouse's collar, and Will stares at it for a long moment before speaking. "Are you all right?"

"No." A smile rises and breaks against Alana's face like ocean waves. "And yes. But mostly no."

Will smiles back. "That makes two of us, I guess."

Once the nurse is finished checking his dressings and administering timely medication, she brings Will a cup of water and then leaves. He sips through his straw, stalling, not sure what to say. He finally works up the nerve. "Where is he?"

"In a holding cell, with the Baltimore police," says Alana, each word clipped and rehearsed. "Jack is with him now. He asked for me to call as soon as you were awake, but..."

"I'm not awake," says Will, and he squeezes his eyes shut to prove it. "I'm not even a little bit awake."

Alana chuckles, but that breaks, too, and for the next twenty minutes they cling to each other's hand and try not to lose their minds.

By some miracle, Jack doesn't arrive until the evening, just after Will has finished a serviceable dinner of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. He's as ragged as Will has ever seen him and for once he wastes time with small talk pleasantries about the food, and Will's condition, and how, yes, handcuffs are necessary when you've recently broken out of a maximum security psychiatric ward.

"I didn't have much choice, Jack," says Will, because Alana is out of the room now. "He would have killed her."

"I know," replies Jack, his eyes pacing the room as if he's still not ready for this subject, but getting there. "I know, and I'm doing everything I can for you on my end. I'll take responsibility." His shoulders sink. "For all of it."

"You don't have to say it."

"Yes. I do." Jack faces him. "I'm so sorry, Will."

And there's so much that Will can say in return. He wants to tell Jack that he doesn't have to be sorry, because there's no way he could have known. He doesn't feel betrayed because he never would have believed someone in his position either. All of them are culpable and all of them were blind. But he knows none of that will make Jack feel any better, so he says the only thing that matters. "It's okay, Jack. I forgive you."

Some of the weight lifts from Jack's shoulders, but not by much. Will can still see it hanging from the nape of his neck and he knows that Jack isn't finished. There's be something new for him to apologize for, and soon. Not yet. For now, Jack outlines his strategy for getting Will's charges reversed and his freedom restored, and he leaves without ever mentioning the name already in the air between them.

In fact, it isn't until several days later, when Will is mostly healed and anxious about his future, that Jack returns and puts it all out there.

"Arresting you was already a huge embarrassment for the bureau," he says as Will tugs on the shoes Alana has brought for him. "Admitting we were wrong is going to be even worse. Even with the evidence we have against Lecter, it's not much compared to what he put on you. We need to get more out of him before the DA will release you."

It's the first time Will has heard the name since taking a scalpel to his gut, but it doesn't hit him as hard as he thought it might. In fact, he's quite calm. "You need him to confess."

"Katz is combing his home for trace, but of course we don't expect to find much from those early murders. He's too careful and it's been too long. I'm afraid even if we're able to connect him to the Ripper's murders it might not be enough to clear you."

"But everything you have on Will can be attributed to him," says Alana. "He had access to Will's home, to the case files, to even your home phone number and address-"

"I know," says Jack, frustrated. "Believe me, I know. But the best thing I can do for Will now is to get a confession out of him. And he's not talking to me."

Alana swallows hard. Will can see in her eyes a flash of instinctual fear, sharp and selfish as all creatures are in the face of mortality, before she understands Jack's intentions. "You can't be serious."

Jack leans back on his heels. "He'll only speak to Will."

"No." Alana shakes her head and takes a step in front of him as if making herself a shield. "Don't you dare."

Will doesn't look at either of them. He looks to the window, small and sealed, hoping for a view of blue sky or a little tree or something else as simple. All he finds are warm gray clouds heavy with spring rain. Mother nature is full of metaphors, he thinks with a wry smile.

"If he doesn't want to do it, I'm not about to force him," Jack is saying. "But I don't have anyone else I can put in a room with him, and unless he talks I don't think I can prove that Will _didn't_ kill Abigail Hobbs, let alone the rest of them."

"Yeah," Will murmurs, watching the wind speed the clouds on. "Hard to argue with her ear in my stomach."

He can feel Jack and Alana stare at him, but there's no point in looking back. "I'll do it," he says. "It's about time we had a proper conversation."

"Will." Alana takes a seat on the mattress next to him. "You don't have to do this now."

"What's the alternative?" asks Will. "I go back to a cell and hope they don't put us next to each other? If I don't do this now, it'll be harder, later." He finally reels himself in and looks to Jack. "How soon can we go?"

Jack is all apologies and resignation as he waves two men into the room. "We can go now, if you're up to it."

Will is let out of the hospital in handcuffs, escorted by a pair of plain clothes agents and Jack himself in the lead. Someone snaps his picture getting into the car, but he doesn't particularly care where it ends up or what anyone will think seeing it. The drive takes a lifetime. Despite being a breach of protocol Alana sits with him in the back, her hand tight around his, her gaze unwavering on the back of Jack's head. Will can feel her vibrating in her skin.

"Just because I'm doing this doesn't mean _you_ have to," Will tells her quietly.

Alana's grip tightens protectively. "I'm not leaving you alone with him again," she says.

They enter through the back of the building. The captain is there to meet them with a slew of his own officers, but Will doesn't pay attention as he and Jack enter into the usual game of jurisdiction politics. He doesn't feel much of anything yet. He preoccupies himself with enjoying the fit of his normal clothing: jeans, shirt, sweater, all in pieces as they're might to be, no jumpsuits with safe, plastic buttons and zippers. In time he might even earn a haircut and a proper shave. Let that motivate you, he thinks to himself. Do this, and you can shave. He finds that he doesn't even need the incentive; even as they draw closer, his nerves stand firm, and he's ready. He's never been more ready.

The captain catches up to him and tells him the procedure. "He's in the interrogation room now, handcuffed to his chair. The restraints are not coming off no matter what, so don't ask. You'll be escorted to your chair opposite him by an officer, who will remain in the room with you the entire time. If you get up from your chair at any time, you'll be escorted out."

"I understand," says Will. "I'm just here to talk."

"We'll be watching from behind the glass." The captain catches a look from Jack and adds, "You can get a look at him from there before you go in, if you want."

Will starts to answer that it's not necessary, but Alana beats him to it. "Yes," she says. "Thank you."

They step into the room. The one-way mirror takes up most of the wall, illuminated by the bright and unnatural lighting of the interrogation chamber beyond it. Alana is still at his elbow as Will approaches, but he barely registers her. His bones twist within their sinews but his gait is steady, propelling him forward like a course-set wind-up toy. The world narrows and he's there, at the glass, peering in.

Hannibal Lecter is there waiting for him. He looks deceptively normal, dressed in a plain, button down shirt, his hair neatly combed. The touch of stubble is uncommon but he wears it well, and his expression is easy with casual indifference to his surroundings. Even his arms stretched behind him, handcuffed, as promised, to the bolted-down chair, do nothing to disturb his implacable posture. If not for the context of the cell itself, one might never know he is not there of his own free will.

And maybe he is, thinks Will, standing rooted before the glass. Maybe even this is part of the design.

He forces himself to reflect. He remembers the first time he met Hannibal Lecter in Jack's office, just another unwanted acquaintance. He relives flashes of memory: Hannibal's sturdy hands pulling his own away from Abigail's throat; the warm smell of freshly brewed coffee as perceived from the height of an office mezzanine; Hannibal's slow smile through prison bars. Their history passes before his eyes and he lets it in, wallows and revels in it, clads himself in it like armor. Nothing Hannibal does can ever harm him again. He is caught, now. He is a specimen. He is a moth pinned to the board and he cannot hurt anyone.

Alana is vibrating next to him. Will doesn't look because he fears what her expression might do to him, but he leans closer. "It'll be all right," he says, because that's what you're supposed to say in situations like these.

"Like hell it will," replies Alana. "But I'll be here, watching." She turns toward him but he still doesn't look. "Unless you want me to go in with you."

"No. No, I don't."

Jack comes up on his other side. "I'll be watching from here, too. Stay only for as long as you want to, and don't say more than you're comfortable with. He's ours now, Will. You're in control."

Will appreciates the pep talk, as pointless as it seems. "You're at least going to uncuff me before I go in there, aren't you?"

"I don't know if I can agree to that," says the captain.

"If I'm going in there to get him to talk, I'm not going in with a disadvantage," says Will. "He has enough over me already. Maybe if he thinks I've been cleared he'll have less to bargain with."

"He knows better," says Alana, which Will already knows. He just wants the cuffs off.

"Couldn't they be an advantage?" suggests the captain. "If he thinks you're just as bad off as him, he might feel safer giving up information."

"He knows better," Alana repeats. "He already knows everything we have to throw at him. Tricks aren't going to work; all we can do is trust Will."

"Please just take the cuffs off," says Will. "I'm not going anywhere."

The captain still hesitates, and when it takes too long Jack simply removes the cuffs himself. "We'll be watching," he says again.

Will does his best to rub in the imprints of the metal out of his wrists, for his own comfort more so than fitting in with any strategy. When he looks again into the room, he's not surprised to see that Hannibal is staring straight back at him. He watches Hannibal's nostrils, waiting for them to flare as he picks up the scent.

"Will," says Alana close at his side. "Good luck."

"Thanks," says Will, and he lets one of the officers lead him around the holding cell to its proper entrance.

As Will steps inside, he tries not to think too hard about what he's going to say or how he's carrying himself. His opponent is shrewd and knows him too well; no agenda will go unnoticed, no secret can be kept. All he can do is trust that when Hannibal places his piece, he will know how to react. For now, it's only a game with no stakes. He doesn't let himself think about any particular victims or even his own freedom, because Hannibal can see through him. And he might as well. Be transparent, Will tells himself, because you're already made of glass.

Hannibal smiles and acknowledges Will's entrance with a slight nod. He is friendly and normal, and in that instant when their eyes meet for the first time in several days, Will knows with a sudden, startling clarity that he is not ready for this.

The officer escorts Will to his chair across from Hannibal and makes sure he's seated and settled before backing away to join the guard already present. Will knows they have no chance for privacy but he wishes the officers would leave so they can at least pretend. He's always been more comfortable facing his demons alone.

"Hello, Will," says Hannibal, perfectly amiable, as if he didn't try to gut Will like a pig the last time they were in a room together.

"Hello, Dr. Lecter," says Will. He's far less than amiable and there's no use hiding it.

Hannibal's smile deepens. "We were, at one point, on a first name basis, were we not?"

"We were." Will leans forward, elbows on the table. He's engaging; he's not afraid. "That feels like a long time ago, now."

"I can call you Agent Graham, if you're more comfortable with that."

"I honestly couldn't care less what you call me, Dr. Lecter."

"Very well. Will." Hannibal is already sitting perfectly straight, but he still manages to gather himself up, look taller and straighter. "Then I suppose we ought to get started."

"That is why I'm here." Already Will thinks he should have come in with a plan, but it's a little late. "You're aware you're entitled to have your lawyer here for this?"

"I am," says Hannibal. "I'm waiving that right, for now."

"You said you would only talk to me. I hope that means you have something to say."

Hannibal's eyes narrow with good humor. "I assumed that _you_ would have something to say."

Will laughs, surprising himself. He needs to calm down and focus. They haven't even really started yet. "Believe me," he says, "there's a lot I could say to you right now."

"Then why not get it out in the open?" says Hannibal. "It does us no good to bottle these feelings in, Will. Speaking your mind is essential to good mental health."

"Wow." Will laughs some more and then rubs his mouth; he hears Hannibal's voice in his head reminding him, _touching your mouth is sometimes an unconscious gesture of self-regulation._ He folds his hands on the table. "I never thought I'd hear sarcasm from you."

Will braces himself for the retort, the smug _you don't know me very well, do you?_ But Hannibal's tone is clear when he says, "I am being earnest. I want you to speak to me, Will. I know there's a lot on your mind."

There was, a moment ago. Now Will doesn't know. He feels his thoughts scattering like birds in the field, leaving only feathers to grasp after. "This isn't about me," he says, hoping in vain that Hannibal can't see him struggling. "I came to talk about _you_."

Hannibal's gaze slips away. "That's a shame. I had hoped that now that we've finally reached this point, you could finally be honest with me."

"_Me_? Be honest with _you_?"

"It's something I've been waiting for, for a long time," says Hannibal, and God help him, Will can't hear him lie. "I've known from the beginning that you and I are so very much alike, but for reasons made obvious, each of us could only express so much of ourselves. All those barriers are gone now, Will. We can be completely honest. I consider it the single most positive outcome of all of this."

Will knows there are things he _should_ be saying, but they don't make it out of him. "What is it that you think I need to be honest with you about?"

Hannibal stares straight at him. "How you killed Abigail."

Will goes cold. Hannibal bores into him, making maggots of his insides and he can barely breathe. He is guilty. He can still feel the imprint of the handcuffs on his wrists-he can taste Abigail's fucking _ear_ in his _throat_-but what's almost worse than all of it is the memory of Dr. Chilton smarming at him across a table just like this. _Tell me about Abigail, _says the enemy._ Tell me how you killed that poor girl._

And he doubts. The world closes in and in that moment he remembers killing Abigail Hobbs, her throat splitting open beneath his steel so easily, as if dying in his arms was all she was ever meant to do. He's haunted by the sensations of his heart racing with every pump of her severed veins, eyes dilated and nostrils flared as he drinks in the sweet agony of the kill. He feels her meat in his hands and he honors every part of her.

Will is out of the chair. He's through the door and in the hallway, and Jack is snagging him by the elbow, drawing him to the wall so he can stand, so he can breathe, and Alana is gripping his hands tight.

"I didn't kill Abigail," he says, and he hates how uncertain he sounds, even to himself.

"We know," Alana says, and then she's touching his face. "Will, we know."

Jack doesn't say anything. He looks tired and concerned and angry, and Will doesn't blame him for not rushing to his defense. Will isn't sure if he believes it either.

The captain approaches and views them with distrust. "This is why I said-"

"Captain, please," Jack interrupts him. "Give us a moment."

Alana glances between the two men. "You can't send him back in there."

"I'm all right," says Will, shrugging free of Jack's assistance to prove it. "I'm sorry-I should have seen it coming. I wasn't quite as ready as I thought I was."

Jack leans back, but he stays close as if assuming Will will need his support again soon. "Do you want to go back in?"

"Yes." Will eases Alana back and combs his hands through his hair. "I'm all right."

"Will, you don't have to do this now," Alana tries again. "You're not ready."

"If I give him more time, he's only going to pull in tighter," says Will. "His defenses are not going to weaken from letting him stew-I have to push him now or there might not be another chance. Besides." He takes a breath. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Will goes back into the room. Hannibal is patiently waiting, no longer smiling but calm and attentive as Will retakes his seat. The two guards in the room exchange looks and say nothing.

Neither does Hannibal. Will waits, but it becomes clear that Hannibal is not going to be the one to break the silence, so he has no choice. "I'll tell you how I killed Abigail Hobbs if you tell me how you killed Cassie Boyle."

"You go first," says Hannibal.

"I took her to Minnesota hoping to uncover _you_," says Will, his hands folded on the table, his eyes even with Hannibal's. "If only I'd been in a saner state of mind, I think she would have given me the truth. She knew it was you all along, didn't she? It was your voice on the phone. She kept your secret." He swallows. "And you kept hers."

"For as long as I could," Hannibal agrees.

It's not much of an admission, but it's enough for Will's purpose. He continues. "But she was beginning to see what you are. Why else would she have come with me, already knowing the person I was after was you? She was going to tell me. She wanted to."

He can hear the soft click of Hannibal's cuffs as he resettles his weight in the chair. "I don't know why she went with you. Maybe she did want to tell you." His gaze is suddenly hard and accusing. "Maybe she was beginning to see what _you_ are."

"What I am," Will repeats, but he doesn't wait for Hannibal to elaborate. He needs to stay in control. "You mean, just like her father."

"Tell me how you killed her."

It takes too little effort to lie. "I slit her throat," says Will, and he can feel the drag of the knife reverberating up his arms into his elbows. The smell of her blood is in the air and on his tongue. "In the kitchen. Just like a father ought to."

Hannibal turns his head away. His brow is heavy over distant eyes. It throws Will off, but he continues, wondering if he'll be able to see Hannibal's pupils dilate. "She told me that she helped her father hunt the other girls," he says. "She helped him butcher them: cutting them open, bleeding them. She helped him select which organs to eat."

"And you killed her for that?"

Will suppresses a shudder. "I did," he says, barely audible. He doesn't care about the officers in the room or the people beyond the glass because he can always tell them later it was only strategy. He can tell Hannibal anything to get the result he wants out of him. No one needs to know how close to true the words actually are. "I felt betrayed. I didn't save her so that she could turn out to be just like him." Sweat slicks in the insides of his palms. "I pulled her to me and I slid the knife across her neck."

Hannibal lets his breath out, sharp and shuddering. It gives Will a chill, but he soon realizes that it's disgust twisting Hannibal's features into a frightful shape. His eyes are squeezed shut as if to block out the ugly tale and his throat is tight with shame and disappointment. Will can't help but marvel at the sight. He even smiles a little.

"You're quite the actor, Dr. Lecter," he mutters.

Hannibal takes a long moment to collect himself, letting Will stew in the foul atmosphere. His distress seems so real, and Will doubts. He hates himself and he doubts. "Jack warned me that you had taken her," Hannibal says when he's ready. "I followed as soon as I could, but I was too late. I saw her blood on the floor."

Will tenses in his chair. "I bet you did."

"I'm sorry," says Hannibal, and his downturned remorse is almost enough to send Will out of the room again. "I should have warned Abigail of how unstable you'd become. Even if her trust in me had waned, a little less trust in you might have saved her life."

Will heaves air into his lungs and holds it there. Lets it out slowly. He tells himself not to back down. He knows the truth. Everyone will know it soon. Push. Push him.

"You felt almost as responsible for her as I did," says Will. "Didn't you."

"I did. Maybe even more so, in some ways." Hannibal licks his lips, but he keeps his eyes stubbornly averted, as if _he_ might break if forced to meet Will's again before he's ready. "She was very dear to me, Will. If you killed her in some part to hurt me, you succeeded admirably."

"You loved her like a daughter."

Hannibal's lip curls. "And here I was beginning to suspect you didn't think me capable of that."

Will can feel the poles reversing, but he stays rooted to his spot. The heels of his hands leave sweat marks on the polished metal of the table. "We haven't even begun to talk about what you're capable of, Dr. Lecter."

"No. Because this is still about you." When Hannibal finally looks back, something in him has changed. His dark eyes are intense with the knowledge of God. "Did it feel as good to kill Abigail as it did her father?"

"No." Before Will can stop himself, he's leaning back.

"A small wonder," says Hannibal, "when your victim is a young girl."

"Not too young to be guilty of murder herself," says Will.

"And is that all the justification you need?" Hannibal leans forward. "I suppose it must be, as we have poor Georgia Madchen as proof."

Will can't stop himself. "I didn't kill Georgia Madchen."

"Jack sent you out against the monsters, but it wasn't enough to find them," Hannibal goes on. "Imprisonment isn't punishment enough. So you kill them."

"You're the one who-"

"Hobbs, Stammets, Budge, Madchen, Gideon, Abigail. You didn't always succeed, but you often made the attempt. Even with me." Hannibal's voice lowers to something lethal. "I know that when you pointed your gun at me, you intended to kill me."

Will feels the pin through his sternum, the board at his back. "I did," he whispers.

"And if you had it to do again," says Hannibal, "you would."

His hands clench until his knuckles crack and ache. "I would."

"Then do it, Will." Hannibal leans as far forward as he can against the handcuffs. His face is a mask ready to be peeled. "Kill me."

The temptation is almost more than Will can stand. Hannibal is before him, at his mercy, and it wouldn't it be easy or quick, but he could do it. All he has to do is reach across the table and not let go. He remembers clawing his way into Alana's home late in the night and finding Hannibal's hands around her throat, and all he wants is to return the favor tenfold. He could be righteous and powerful and everything would be _over_. His body thrums with the need of it.

But behind the mask there is a smile, and Will knows he's losing, and he retreats again.

"This is a waste of time," the captain complains as Will paces back and forth in the viewing room. "He's playing with you the same way he's played with everyone we send him. You're never going to get a confession out of him this way, and I'm starting to think it's for good reason."

He side-eyes Will, but immediately Jack is there, putting himself between them. "Will Graham did not kill Abigail Hobbs," says Jack. "And we're going to prove it. Maybe you're satisfied with the single count of murder we're holding him for, but-"

"You don't think I want to connect him to the Ripper as much as you? This is our town, Special Agent Crawford. We have-"

Will shakes his head and blocks them out. He keeps waiting for the fire to ease out of his blood but it's not going anywhere, and when he glances at Hannibal through the glass he's not sure he can go back in. The anger of Jack and the captain sizzles under his skin like oil in a pan, blurring everything together. He remembers Abigail's small hands in his, her voice in his ear, an urgent and hopeful whisper.

_It felt good_.

Will wonders how good it would feel to kill Hannibal and thinks he might be sick.

"Maybe you should give up on Abigail for now," says Alana gently. She halts his pacing with a hand on his elbow. "He knows you don't remember what really happened and he's just going to keep planting doubt in your mind. You don't need to give him the opportunity."

Will shakes his head. "There's something specific about Abigail that he's hiding from me. He's not just pushing my buttons for the sake of it-he's protecting himself with thorns. It's calculated." He licks his lips. "Besides, it's his turn."

When Will goes back in, Hannibal is staring down at the desk as if in deep contemplation. He looks remorseful and haunted, and even after Will sits down across from him, he takes a moment to shake it off and rally himself. He's better at faking emotion than most people are at feeling it, Will thinks. He envies him.

"How did you kill Cassie Boyle?" asks Will.

Hannibal looks at him. "Are we not talking about Abigail anymore?"

"I told you how I killed her," says Will. "So it's your turn. How did you kill Cassie Boyle?"

"I removed two organs," says Hannibal, "which were too vital for her to live without." He tilts his head. "How did the coroner describe the cause of death? Asphyxia?"

Will's hair stands on end. He can't remember if he expected Hannibal to admit it or not. "He suspected the shock killed her before the lack of oxygen."

"Then I ought to help him update his report."

"Tell me more." Will leans forward. "Why her?"

"There was no particular reason." Whatever humanity he displayed a moment ago is gone; he is as calm and detached as any monster Will has ever met. "I needed a girl who fit closely with Garret Jacob Hobbs' profile. She presented herself to me. The phrase 'too good to be true' comes to mind."

"You killed her for me," says Will, forcing himself past the horror of that statement and everything it entails. "You understood at once what Hobbs was really doing. You did the opposite so that I would understand it, too."

"You could put it that way, yes." A slow smile. "And it worked."

"Why?" He can feel the sweat marks he left a moment ago on the table. "You barely knew me then. Why go out of your way and risk everything just to help me?"

"I already told you," says Hannibal. "I felt a kinship between us. You might consider it a kind of courtship."

"And Marissa Schurr?" Will asks. He can feel everyone in the room behind him press up against the glass. "What were you trying to show me then?"

Hannibal snorts quietly. "I'm sorry to say it, but it is not _always_ about you."

"Yes it is," says Will, and all it takes is a little tick-a twitch in the corner of Hannibal's right eye-to tell him he's right. "You killed them for me. One as a lesson. The other-"

"Protection," says Hannibal. "Diverting the investigation from an unknown onto Nicholas Boyle prevented you from looking too closely at me, did it not?"

Will imagines himself as Hannibal, posing Marissa Shore on the antler wall. He can feel the cold, coarse texture of her hair through his fingers as he combs it over her shoulders, delicately covering her naked breasts. Her death holds purpose. Her arms are outstretched but she is no martyr. She is mocking, and welcoming, and tastefully artistic. She is not a warning.

"She was a gift," says Will, and now the pieces are falling into place. "Yes, you were protecting yourself, but not because you thought I would catch you-even now, you don't feel as if I've _caught_ you, do you?" Will leans against his elbows; he can see in Hannibal's face that he's close, and he pushes. "You're here because you choose to be here, now, in this instant. But back then was too soon. You didn't want me to see you too soon, so you had to divert me, not for your safety, but for mine. Because..." His momentum wanes, but he clings to it, dizzy with the understanding. "Because you knew that if I saw you then, you would have to kill me, and you didn't want that. You killed her to save my life."

Hannibal is smiling, soft and proud and full of fondness. It is a terrible thing, to earn the Devil's favor. Will shudders beneath the weight of it, and he realizes that even the path of their conversation is of Hannibal's choosing. He hasn't uncovered anything that Hannibal didn't plant for him to find. He hasn't pushed hard enough.

"Aren't you as glad as I am," says Hannibal, "that we can finally be honest with each other?"

Will swallows back frustration and guilt. Be honest, he tells himself. "Did you think that because I can empathize with killers, I would be able to empathize with you?" he asks. "Was that the whole point of all of this?"

"I had hoped to see you make the attempt," says Hannibal.

Will sizzles in the pan. _Push_. "You're a tough one, Doctor. You're going to have to give me more to work with."

"I could have," says Hannibal, "if only you hadn't pushed me off of her."

Will remembers Hannibal's hands around Alana's throat and fantasizes, briefly but with all the vividness available to him, about breaking Hannibal's skull open against a corner of the table. "What would you have done with her?" he asks from somewhere outside himself. "Would you have posed her like the rest?"

Hannibal looks disappointed in him. "Of course not."

"Why? Because she hasn't done enough to _offend_ you like the others?" Will's shoulders hitch. "Or were you going to cut off her arm so you could poke me with it?"

"Oh, Will," says Hannibal. "Like I said: it isn't always about _you_." He glances past Will to the viewing window. "But if she would like to come in here and ask me herself..."

"No," Will says immediately. He casts a quick, hard look behind him and hopes that Alana won't rise to the bait. "No, this isn't about her."

"I've known Alana Bloom for much longer than you have," Hannibal carries on anyway. "She and I are rather close. In all those years, I've had many opportunities to kill her." He smiles with embarrassment. "Even motive to do so, a time or two. But I protected her, as I did you."

Will lowers his voice and hopes it's enough to keep Alana from hearing. "You've killed for her."

"I have."

Will doesn't want to know the details, because he knows that Alana would get them out of him eventually. "But you were still going to kill her."

"You left me little choice." Hannibal's good humor fades in favor of cold accusation. "You told her."

Will starts to contradict, but watching the subtle change of Hannibal's expressions gives him another in. "You really didn't want to kill her, did you?"

"Do you find that strange?" asks Hannibal.

"A true psychopath doesn't feel guilt," says Will evenly, studying and measuring. "No remorse. And you don't, not really, but..." His eyes narrow, and Hannibal waits for him. "You would mourn her, wouldn't you? Like you do Abigail. Just...in your own way." His upper lip curls in disgust. "In your own, inhuman way."

Hannibal is quiet, so Will pushes. "What is it about Abigail that attracts you so much?" he asks quietly, choosing his words and tenses carefully.

"We've already talked about that," says Hannibal. "She had secrets of mine to keep."

"It would have been easier for you to just kill her," Will presses. "You had any number of opportunities to do it that wouldn't have led to anyone suspecting you. But you kept her alive." He flinches. "For as long as you could. Until I pushed too hard, and then you had no choice. If I hadn't connected the copycat to Dr. Sutcliffe and Georgia, Jack wouldn't have gone after Abigail again. You couldn't let him get to her, if there was a chance she'd sell you out. I forced your hand."

"You've made a habit of it," says Hannibal.

"And you're angry with me because of it. Aren't you?" Will leans forward. "All that effort you put into her, and I ruined it. If only you'd had more time, she might have seen you, and accepted you as her new father." He feels something coil in his stomach that he can't explain, and he draws on it, lets instinct guide his words. "Where Garret Jacob Hobbs taught her to fish, you could have taught her to hunt. She would have been perfect for you."

Hannibal glances away. "She did possess a set of skills I would have found useful," he concedes.

"Butchering them?" Will suggests. "Cutting them open, bleeding them?"

Hannibal's eyes dance back to him as if in anticipation of his next words. Will didn't intend on saying more but he remembers the progression from only minutes ago, and he can see it passing through the air between them. He imagines Hannibal and Abigail in the cabin, picking which organs to eat. Hannibal, reaching into the chest cavity of a young woman and removing her lungs. Carefully slicing the connecting tissues, the trachea, preserving the organ whole and undamaged. Keeping the USB cables only to be discarded later, because the organs detach more easily that way, store more easily that way. That's how the Ripper rips.

Valuable organs. Organs to be honored.

Will's stomach clenches, and he knows. He can see it so clearly and the world dissolves into static around them. Hannibal knows that he knows, and he smiles, answering the question Will can't bring himself to ask.

"Yes," he says. "Every time."

Will is out of the room again. Jack isn't fast enough to catch him, not until he's in the men's room, doubled over a toilet, puking his guts out. When he closes his eyes all he can see are gnashing teeth, blood in the gums. He tastes meaty pulp at the back of his throat. Even the sting of bile can't erase from him the memory of every meal Hannibal has served him. He remembers Cassie Boyle on the stag, and in his mind's eye the antlers burst into flames, browning her delicate skin so that the fat beneath it sizzles and pops. He pictures her as a roast pig on a banquet table, and himself, sitting down to feast. Feast after feast after feast.

"Will?"

Jack touches his back, and Will's first thought is _Miriam Lass: chicken wings_, followed by, _Oh God, Jack, oh God,_ and he can't stop gagging into the porcelain.

"Will, take it easy." There's not much room in the stall, but Jack does his best to comfort Will in what little way he can. "You're going to rip your stitches open."

It's so tempting. Will wraps his arms around his stomach; the pain surges all through him and he wants to pull his seams apart. There's death in his belly. He remembers sausage and loin and gravy and liver, only days or maybe even hours fresh from heinous murder, nourishing him. He recounts every step of the digestive process and thinks about bits of young girls being absorbed in through his intestinal walls. He wants to rip them out of him, but it's too late, much too late, and every cell in his body is saturated with horror.

"Will," Jack tries again. "Just listen to me. You need to take a deep breath. You-"

"He's been eating them," Will blurts out, tears in his eyes from the pain of retching as he turns to face him. "The organs-he's eating them. He's been..."

Alana is standing behind Jack, but not for long. The color floods out of her face and her eyes swim upward, but she doesn't faint. She knows. Her muscles snap tight and she turns, vomiting into a sink.

Jack doesn't move at first. He's so still, pale and wide-eyed, his breath shallow. Will sees full course dinners parading up and down his throat. "You're sure?" Jack whispers.

"Yes." Will draws his knees and has to fight hard not to gag again, but his stomach is throbbing and bile is burning his sinuses. "He's been feeding them to us."

Alana makes a sound that's halfway sob, halfway something broken and inhuman. As she runs the water Jack pushes slowly to his feet. A void overtakes his features, but only for a few moments more. All of a sudden anger explodes behind his eyes and he storms out of the bathroom.

Will has to use the toilet paper dispenser to help propel him to his feet, and even once he's upright his balance is tenuous at best, but he manages to chase after Jack. By the time he reaches the interrogation room Jack is already inside and the guards are having a hard time holding him back.

"What did you give to my wife?" Jack is shouting, one hand gripping Hannibal's collar as it takes both guards and the captain to keep him from doing worse. "What in God's name did you feed _my dying wife_?"

Will enters the fray. He keeps his back to Jack and pries his fingers, one by one, off of Hannibal's shirt. He's careful not to look at Hannibal's face, but as he separates the men and Jack is pulled back, he feels Hannibal turn. A pair of lips ghost across the inside of Will's wrist. His pulse hammers beneath a gentle scrape of teeth, and it isn't until he's back in the hall that he's able to breathe.

The captain is demanding explanations, but Jack is heaving, half out of his mind, and Will begs for a private room where they can calm down. They retreat to a spare office and sit on opposite sides of the desk, like solemn brothers at a prison visitation, utterly speechless.

Alana enters a few minutes later, still pale and nauseated. Will can't stop himself from asking, "Are you all right?"

"No I'm not all right!" Alana shouts, and Will hopes that she's able to hold onto that anger. It's safer and easier than what he's feeling. "Don't you know how long I've known him? How many times I've been in his home, had dinner with..." She wipes her mouth and then her eyes. "For God's sake, I was at his last dinner party with Baltimore's 'elite' while you were out chasing an organ harvester!"

"Maybe we shouldn't jump to conclusions," says Jack even as his nostril flare angrily. "He could just be playing with us again-"

Alana slams both hands on the desk. "He served us _brains_, Jack!"

"It's true," says Will, arms around his stomach again. His stitches are burning and he can't be sure he won't vomit again soon. "He fed me Cassie Boyle in my hotel room. With scrambled eggs."

Alana starts pacing, her heels clacking violently on the tile. Jack leans into his fists and Will squeezes his eyes shut, and they are all at a loss.

"This can't go public," says Jack.

"It's not up to us," says Will without looking up. "He'll let everyone know when he's good and ready. He'll want to revel in it."

"He's served just about everyone in Baltimore's high society," says Alana as she paces. "Politicians, authors, doctors, lawyers. Even the Mayor and his family, God. The fallout from this is going to be-"

"He's already confessed to Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schurr," Interrupts Jack. "So why is he still being coy? He knows we have him. If he wants half of Baltimore to turn vegetarian why isn't he declaring it outright?"

Will licks his lips and winces at the taste of bile. "Because he was waiting for me to figure it out," he murmurs. "He wanted to see me, the moment I knew. Just like in Minnesota..."

"But still-"

"It's going to get out, Jack. He'll tell everyone when he's ready." He opens his eyes. "You should call Beverly and tell her to start running tests on his kitchen appliances. All of them."

Jack looks ready to shed his skin, but he nods. He pulls out his phone and makes the call. As soon as the request is out of his mouth, Alana turns a little green again, and she leaves the office. Will watches her through the hazy glass, but she doesn't go far. He follows, and he finds her filling a small paper cup at the station water cooler.

"I just need some water," she mutters. She swishes it around her mouth, grimacing, before she swallows. Will follows her example, and afterwards, as they huddle together amidst the officers, their eyes meet and they smile brokenly to keep from screaming.

"He said," whispers Alana, tears on her cheeks. She laughs, thin and panicked, and tries again. "That night you warned me, he called. He said he'd make me dinner if I came over." She looks at him as if there's anything he can possibly say, but there isn't, so she laughs until she's sobbing and swearing, her teeth in his shoulder. He holds her as tightly as he can.

Half an hour passes before Jack, Alana, and Will are composed enough to re-enter the viewing area attached to the interrogation room. By then the captain is prickling with impatience and he bares them no sympathy. "This nonsense has gone on long enough," he says. "We've cooperated. But Dr. Lecter is still in the custody of the state of Maryland, and-"

"Not for long," says Jack. "You're going to sign him over. He's coming with us."

"Now hold on a minute. This is _our_ collar, _we're_ the ones who-"

"You don't want this one," Jack interrupts. "Believe me, I'm not sure _I _want it."

Alana joins in to defend him. She's still pale and her eyes are red, but her strength is back, and she wields it admirably. "We're not talking just about the Ripper and the bodies that have been attributed to him so far, not anymore. This man is a psychiatrist-every one of his patients and their families are going to be demanding answers. He's been killing probably for decades, and abusing his patients and acquaintances psychologically for just as long. The fallout from this is going to go on and on. It needs to be handled by the FBI."

The captain glowers at them both. "You want to pull rank on me? Go ahead. But I'm not going to lie down and take it."

"So call the governor," snaps Jack. "Do it right now-go ahead, I'll wait. And while you're at it, get those officers out of the room with him. Starting now I'm not required to share any interrogation with you."

It takes more arguing and pushing, but eventually the captain leaves, huffing angrily, with only a handful of officers guarding the hall outside the interrogation area. Jack replaces the man watching Hannibal with two of his own agents, and they start discussing the transfer. The Baltimore field office agrees to house Hannibal Lecter during the investigation.

"It won't do any good, in the end," says Will once the three of them are alone. "It's going to get out."

"It'll get out when we're ready for it to get out," says Jack. "Or at least until Dr. Lecter is in a more secure facility than this. I don't trust these locals."

Will approaches the glass. Hannibal is still in the interrogation room, cuffed to the chair, glancing about in thoughtful idleness. Will stares at him, and despite himself he can't help but feel a shudder of awe. He's never known of a man like Hannibal Lecter. He's not sure if he even qualifies as a man and not something else, something otherworldly. Hannibal is intelligent, and cruel, and powerful. His grace is terrifying and his cunning even more so. It would take the Devil to be such an accomplished deceiver.

"But he's not the Devil," Will murmurs to himself, meeting Hannibal's calm and even stare through the glass. "He's still just a human being." He turns. "I'm going back in."

It takes some convincing, but finally Jack agrees to take the agents out of the room. He leaves them in the hall to help corral the Baltimore police while he and Alana remain in the viewing room. Will retakes his seat across from Hannibal. They stare at each other for a full minute, assuring each other in silence that the truth is free and they both know it, before Will finally speaks.

"It rhymes," he says.

"That was not the primary motivation behind my behavior," says Hannibal, "I promise you."

Will smiles despite himself. "What an amazing coincidence, then. Though somewhat inconvenient for you."

"In what way? It did not help you find me any sooner."

"No, I guess not." Will tells himself to swallow all hints of disgust and just push. "It's surprising, really. So many delicate palates you've served, and not one ever guessed. What's your secret, Dr. Lecter?"

"It's no secret. My food is delicious." Hannibal looks past him. "Just ask Dr. Bloom. She has always been my greatest admirer and most frequent guest."

Will is able to wrestle his anger under control by reminding himself that Hannibal baiting him is a good sign; a good liar will always deflect toward anger to protect him or herself. Anger is so easy. "It must have really gotten you off," says Will, "serving her over and over, when she didn't know what she was eating. Her, me, Jack. Everyone else. We're all learning something about ourselves today."

Hannibal smiles, though with a clear hint of irritation at Will's choice of words. "What are you learning about yourself today, Will?"

It takes too little effort to tell the truth. "That I like the taste of human meat. As prepared by you, anyway."

Hannibal's smile deepens. His face is warm with pleasure and he radiates a morbid satisfaction. But there's also something else, like a hint of a scent that Will can't place yet, folded into Hannibal's calm insanity. "You needn't be hard on yourself," he says. "You're far from the only one." He leans forward. "Do you know how many men and women have sat at my table, Will? Each of them, their lips greedy on the spoon."

"Were you trying to prove something?" asks Will. He's trying to view Hannibal as a subject, a grotesque and fascinating aberration, but their history keeps getting in the way. "You were trying to prove that in the end, we're all just like you. We'll all eat."

"Are you certain you want to talk about this now? If you have me all figured out by the time you leave here today, what will we have to look forward to later?"

Will has to bite down against his resurfacing anger, but then he realizes, with a slow and bitter smile, that there's no point. He reminds himself of his own advice and makes himself into glass. "It's hardly avoidable anyway," he prods. "I don't think you're that difficult to figure out."

"Oh?" Hannibal is good, so good, but there's nothing even he can do to hide the flicker of curiosity behind his eyes. "Very well. Tell me your findings, Will."

"You've been giving me the clues all this time, haven't you?" says Will. "Little breadcrumbs all the way to your oven. Like killing Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schurr right under my nose. They were nothing to you-no more than pigs to be slaughtered. You measure human life in its ability to amuse you up until someone becomes a nuisance."

"Does that account for Abigail?" challenges Hannibal, his chin upturned.

"You don't think it does," says Will, and if only he were dissecting a stranger, he could agree. But this is Hannibal, and he's _angry_, and he lets it gleam through him. "Maybe deep down you really do believe that you cared for her. You weren't acting, earlier. You are angry with me for forcing your hand, because there's a lot you would have done for her. You would have killed for her."

"Yes. I would have."

"But you didn't," Will continues, and seeing Hannibal's eyelids droop spurs him on. He lets his contempt pour from him. "You never loved Abigail. You saw in her a possibility because of the things her father made her do, but you were wrong about her. She was nothing like you and she never would have been."

"Like me," Hannibal echoes. "Be specific, Will."

There's so many things he could say. _Monster_ is at the top of his list and Hannibal can see him thinking it. If he had any pride left in him, he could come up with something better, but he doesn't. Hannibal has taken everything from him, and he's not inclined to offer anything more let alone his best. So he throws out everything he's ever learned from psychology and gives Hannibal the last thing he wants.

"She's not a monster," he says.

Hannibal gives up no reaction straight away. He just watches as Will pours his hate out. "Because that's what you are, isn't it? There's no other word. All your fancy mind games and manipulations-you're not an idiot, I'll give you that. But in the end-" He shakes his head slowly "-it doesn't really matter. All you are is a clever beast. You're not capable of half the complexity of emotion Abigail was, let alone any other normal human being, you poor, sick caricature."

"Will," says Hannibal, "there's no need to be petty."

Will sags into the back of his chair. "What choice do I have when all I have to work with is you?"

"You had plenty to say about the complexity of this 'beast' half an hour ago."

"I was humoring you." On impulse, Will gets up from his chair. "I thought I might give you what you want. You said it yourself, didn't you?" He pushes the chair into the table and leans against its back, enjoying that Hannibal has to look up to meet his eyes. "You thought that if you let me catch you, I would see you. That I would understand and be in awe of you. Isn't that it? You wanted me to _become_ you so that I could properly appreciate your greatness, but believe me, Dr. Lecter, I already know everything I care to ever know about you, and what I see does not impress me."

"Will," says Hannibal, patiently at first, but as Will moves toward the door his mask cracks just a hint. "You're disappointing me, Will."

"If you have anything else to share," Will says without looking back, "feel free to do so with Dr. Chilton. He's a bit more on your level."

"Is this really the best you can do?" Hannibal goads, but he's tight, now. All the pushing is finally paying off. "To play the fool in hopes of exploiting my ego?"

"Ego." Will stops at the door and turns back. "That's exactly your problem. You think you're so interesting and so special, not like all those other boring ingrates I've been chasing all this time. But you're _nothing_. Nothing more than some sick eating machine, and-"

"You're not in control here," says Hannibal, his voice suddenly cold. "This isn't strategy. You're just giving yourself another excuse to leave this room."

Will tenses, and only then realizes that his hand is on the doorknob, clenched so tight it's painful. There's sweat on his face and all he wants is to be out. He's a coward, a prey animal under the paw of a lion. And though Hannibal can see it, he doesn't scorn or smile. "Come sit down," Hannibal says, "and I'll give you want you want."

All Will wants is to leave, and he comes close to saying so, but then his body is moving without him. He sits himself down at the table, shivering in his skin. He has lost and he doesn't have any idea what to say now; all he can do is submit.

Hannibal flexes his shoulders as best he can, making himself comfortable. Any little cracks and insecurities Will thought he detected are gone, as if they never existed. "I know very well what happens now," says Hannibal, with a kind of wistful disappointment Will has only ever heard from the truly insane. "Jack Crawford has likely sent his best into my kitchen to hunt out evidence. If he's listening now, I'll save him some time: check the dishwasher. I neglected to run it after my last meal, and I'm certain Ms. Katz will have no trouble detecting the presence of human blood. It belongs to Elizabeth Mayer, from Harwood. He'll find bits of her husband left in their home freezer, if he cares to go looking. Most of him was, quite frankly, inedible."

Will can't look away from the brief flashes of Hannibal's teeth as he speaks, particularly with the word _bits_. The way his upper lip curls upward, the way the tip of his tongue flicks under his incisors. It's as if he finds the word distasteful but uses it anyway, knowing how familiar Will is with human _bits_, how easy it is for him to imagine them.

"Why are you telling me this?" asks Will.

"Because I know it's what Jack will find anyway. Mr. and Mrs. Mayer were not extraordinary, so why waste time discovering them? I'm sure he'd much rather be chasing down the corpse of poor Ms. Lass." Will feels the urge to bare his own teeth, but then Hannibal is continuing. "It is there, to find," he assures. "She may yet have a proper burial. I see no reason to deny Jack that now."

Will covers his aching stiches and makes no effort to hide his grimace. "How kind of you."

"The truth is," Hannibal goes on, "while there are some aspects of my impending fate that I'm looking forward to, overall I'm starting to think I was too hasty. I know what awaits me."

"A small cell," says Will, and he feels the walls closing in. "No privacy, no luxuries. Terrible food and Dr. Chilton." He doesn't even have it in him to gloat. "Of those last two I'm not sure what will be worse for you."

Hannibal offers no answer, and Will wonders if it's because he himself isn't certain. "There will be some amusements to be had. Some privileges. A variety of aspiring psychologists and journalists as visitors. Maybe even Alana Bloom."

Will's eyes open a little wider as he realizes, with greater finality than ever, that he will never been free of Hannibal Lecter, and he can barely breathe. "But not me."

"I'm certain Dr. Chilton would enjoy occasionally putting us in a room together, to see our reactions," says Hannibal. "Perhaps even house us next to each other, for a time. But no, we would never be allowed a true meeting, an equal conversation. You would never bring your cases to me, seek my advice. No more personal anecdotes, no more poetic metaphors."

Will grips his wound tight, dread and eagerness making a madman of him. "What a shame that would be," he whispers. "Now that we can finally be honest with each other."

Hannibal looks pleased with him. "I killed Cassie Boyle," he says. "And Melissa Schurr."

"And Abigail," Will prods, but Hannibal looks away and doesn't concede.

"I've killed hundreds more," he says instead. "For decades, Will. You'll never find them all. But if I were to confess to a few more, it would mean your freedom, wouldn't it?"

"It would." Will tongues the back of his teeth and tastes bile. "Then I could still come and see you." His lips pull back and he wants to laugh until he's screaming. "It'd be just like we were still friends."

"I killed Dr. Donald Sutcliffe," says Hannibal, and Will feels as if he's being dragged to an edge. Only two steps left.

"I know why you killed him," Will pushes. Each name is like a reward, and if he can amuse Hannibal with his cleverness enough to get those last names out of him, this will all be over. He's so ready for it to be over. "You wanted to keep my condition from me, because when I was sick, I was vulnerable. I depended on you, and that kept me from seeing you for what you are."

Hannibal looks away again; he's missing something. Will shifts in his seat, panic close to his surface though he's not sure why-he _knows_ Hannibal is going to give him what he wants. He just has to hold on a little longer. He takes a deep breath and tries again. "It kept me...more interesting."

Hannibal draws his gaze back. "I've always enjoyed our time together, Will."

Will swallows hard and forces the words through. "Even when you were trying to kill me?"

Hannibal has to consider for a moment. "Yes," he says, as if it comes as a surprise even to him. "In its own way."

Will presses into his side until it hurts so much he sees spots. "You killed Georgia Madchen," he says hoarsely.

"I would have preferred to have more time with you, of course. To let you fully appreciate-"

"Let's just finish this-just tell me you killed her!"

"-my aesthetic, let's call it. But for once, the FBI was just in time."

Will pries his fingers away from his stiches and rubs his face. "You killed Sutcliffe because you wanted me to think _I _did it," he tries yet again. "You wanted me to think I was capable of it. Same with Georgia. It wasn't about setting me up in the eyes of the law, it was about _me_, about getting me exactly where you wanted me to be, psychologically. Because you..." He chokes on it. "You were grooming me just as much as you were Abigail."

Hannibal sighs quietly. Will can see him regretting a future that might have been, and he can't feel any satisfaction when Hannibal surrenders, "I killed Georgia Madchen." If Will didn't know better, he would swear he can smell blood on Hannibal's breath.

"She wasn't a threat to you," says Will, angry and unable to stop himself even though he knows better. "She would never have remembered your face-she couldn't have incriminated you."

"Come, now. You know that's not why."

"I _know_!" Will slaps his palms against the table and stands, his chair clattering over. "I know-you killed her because of _me_. They were _all_ because of me, _including_ Abigail, so just say, it for God's sake!"

"I'm willing to sign a confession saying it was me," says Hannibal, sitting tall and straight and unimpassioned. "If it means your freedom. And assuming you'll do something for me."

Will knows what it is, and he knows it's a worthy sacrifice. Nothing should frighten him more than the thought of the cell, and the silence, and Frederick-fucking-Chilton, but for a moment as he meets Hannibal's even and knowing stare, he wonders if it would be worth it. He doesn't know if the life Hannibal is offering him would be that much better than what he has.

He leans forward against the table, his elbows weak and shuddering. He tells himself to go through with it and worry later-it's easy to lie to a murderer. A promise to a monster means nothing. "All right," he whispers, but when Hannibal only inclines his head, he has to take a breath and try again. "All right. I'll visit you. That's what you want, isn't it? Your chance to keep on playing with me?" He lowers his head, resigned and hating himself. "Why me? Why me all this time? Since before we even really knew each other, you've been going out of your way just to toy with me. I don't understand why."

"It's a simple answer," says Hannibal, and even when Will senses him move, he's slow to register it. "I'm very happy to tell you."

Even when Will feels the hand on his wrist, he doesn't fully comprehend. Hannibal's neatly clipped fingernails are digging into his skin and there's blood on his raw knuckles from where he's worked the handcuff off. Just as Will comes to his senses, Hannibal yanks, throwing his balance. Within seconds he's face down on the table, and Hannibal has him pinned by the back of the neck, and Will can't move, can't breathe, can't even think, because Hannibal is looming over him and the smell of blood is suddenly everywhere.

"It's because," says Hannibal, so close that Will can feel the brush of lips against his ear, "I want to know what you taste like."

He opens his mouth, and the hot rush of his breath makes an animal of Will. With nails and elbows Will tries to fight back, but though he manages to grab a fistful of hair, Hannibal isn't deterred in the slightest. All he can do is claw, and shout, and even when he hears the door slamming open he knows he's going to die. Hannibal's teeth are against his neck and his imagination surges ahead of him, flooding him with the sensations of torn flesh and gushing blood. As Jack and his men descend on them, prying and swearing, Will is certain that his throat is already between Hannibal's jaws and there's no saving him. He pictures his body red and mounted, his bits in Hannibal's stomach.

But it's worse than that-the truth is so much worse. Because before they can pull Hannibal away he's at Will's ear, whispering, hissing, "_I didn't kill Abigail, Will._"

As soon as the pressure lifts from the back of Will's neck, he's out the door. No one can stop him, though they try. Figures pass ahead and behind him, their outstretched hands catching in his hair, but he can't make them out or obey their yells. He can taste blood in all his pores, some his, some not. Hannibal's voice thunders through his nerves, until with every step and breath and thought the truth digs deeper into him, and he runs, flees, flings himself as far away from the grisly reality as he can.

He's caught by security before he can make it out of the building. Two men wrestle him to the ground, but he's still an animal, and he fights. He shoves and claws at them until his stitches rip, and part of him is glad, thinking that if he bleeds enough, Abigail's meat will ooze out of him.

Finally, Alana is there. She wraps Will up, and he clings to her, crying into her blouse. He feels as if his glass is shattering. All the horror he's suppressed careens to the forefront and he can't stop shaking as she rocks him back and forth on the cold tile. She tries to tell him, through tears, that it'll be all right-that he was brave, and it's over, now, and he doesn't have to go back in. The beast is signing a full confession to Abigail's murder. It's over, you're safe, it's over.

But Will knows better. It's only a matter of time before he'll be back at Hannibal's table. All he can do is scream.

And he does.


End file.
